


somewhere there's a place for us

by rachtana



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Pezberry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachtana/pseuds/rachtana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel needs an apartment when her roommate doesn't work out; Santana's got an apartment. A pezberry two-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

The first time that Rachel hears her roommate loudly making love to some guy, she covers her ears, squeezes her eyes shut, and prays that it won't happen again. Her heart races and her cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, but where else can she go? She pretends to be asleep, just as she was before she heard the moans and squeals of Daisy, the girl whose sluttiness outweighs her musical talent. With her cheeks flushed, she curls up under her covers and tries not to think about Finn or his stint in the army-or lack thereof, from what Kurt predicts-or the end of a relationship that meant the world to her.

The second time Rachel hears her roommate loudly fucking some guy (and while she hates foul language, there doesn't seem to be anything more than a condom between the two, let alone love), she vows to try and find a new dormroom. Tears fall from her eyes, silently of course-she wasn't about to interrupt the godly (but sacrilegious) exclamations of Daisy or her one-night-stand-and she closes her eyes, but doesn't sleep.

When she calls Santana, her tail hangs between her legs and she cringes when she utters the words, "I need a new place to stay and there are no more dorms available at NYADA." Santana, like Rachel, was determined to move to NYC after college, and after a few days of tortuous classes and a couple of ignorant Kentucky homophobes, she left for the Big Apple with nothing more than a suitcase and the money her mother left her. Within days, she found an apartment and within weeks, according to Kurt, who heard from Brittany, she was singing at nightclubs and making decent money (or at least enough for the studio apartment she leased and a couple of meals a day).

"Are you asking to live with me?" Santana's voice is filled with surprise, and Rachel grips the phone tighter.

"I'll pay half the rent and utilities. My dad's will furnish the place, too-they know how miserable I am with Daisy-er, my roommate-and they'll do anything to make sure I don't give up on my dreams of being here." Her lip quivers as she awaits Santana's answer. She knows they're not best friends, but by the end of the summer, they were civil and, in Rachel's opinion, friendly.

"Sure, Berry," she says. "It's not gonna be cheap, though; I pay $1500 a month, so that means $750 for you. Can you handle that?"

"Well, I can't, but my dads can. They'll take care of it." Rachel pauses. "Can I move in tomorrow?"

"Yeah; get Marc Jacobs over there to help you move your things-we can even go buy you a bed together, all three of us," she says. "Give me your address and I'll be over there tomorrow morning to help you pack." Rachel lets out a sigh of relief.

"I'll tell Kurt to come over at nine."

***

The first night in the apartment is tense; Rachel walks around on her tiptoes, nervously avoiding Santana. She's worried-she doesn't want to upset her, and she knows that one wrong move and she could be out.

As she makes her nightly herbal tea in her pink shorts and tank top, Santana strolls into the kitchenette in her black silky nightgown. She glances up and down at Rachel, lingering slightly too long at Rachel's bare thighs, and then smirks.

"Tea? Is this a part of the nightly routine, Barbra?" Rachel can tell her words are meant to ease the discomfort, so she smiles and nods.

"It eases the vocal cords, soothes them, you know?" She sips and Santana nods, folding her arms over her chest.

"Yeah, I do," Santana says quietly. Silence fills the room for a few beats, and then, "Berry, if we're going to live together, I think we should try to be friends."

"I think we already are," Rachel says, "but we're both just too stubborn to admit it."

"Ain't that the truth," Santana replies. She takes a seat on the couch, and Rachel follows, mug in hand.

"So we really haven't talked in awhile...are you and Brittany..." Rachel says conversationally, "...still together?" There's a part of her that wonders, a part of her that hopes Santana and her can suffer their losses together, to grieve and move on. She needs someone who's not Kurt, who's not constantly (and rather inconsiderately) talking about his or her relationship on loop. She looks up from her tea and into Santana's eyes; suddenly, they're sad, and for the first time since Finn pushed her out of the closet, she looks broken.

"We're...we're not broken up, not yet," she says softly, quietly, "but I think we're headed in that direction. We're just...she still thinks Lord Tubbington is going to write her essays for her, and I'm here, hoping to make it big...we're in two different places. I love her, I do, but I'm not sure I can do it anymore.

"In Lima, I was the girl who looked after her; I kept her safe. I can't keep her safe here in New York," she mumbles, her voice a little raspy with regret. "And...and she kissed Sam at this drunken party at one of the football players' houses, and...it just seems like she's forgotten...forgotten me." Santana sniffles, but quickly composes herself. "But whatever. It's just a stupid high school romance, right? Unless you're Joni and Chachi, those don't last forever." Rachel nods slowly, sadly, and she takes another sip of her tea.

"But you and Finn...I mean, he was a chunky, overly-" she stops herself and puts her hand on Rachel's calf. "I'm sorry about what happened. He's missing out." Rachel lets a tear slide down her cheek.

"Brittany's missing out, too," she mutters, putting her tea down on the floor beside the couch. "I know how much you loved her."

"And I know how much you loved him, Berry, for god knows what reason," she says. "All I can say was, it wasn't the sex." Rachel giggles slightly, and puts her hand over her mouth, embarrassed.

"He was fine, Santana," she says. "He knew the basics."

"But the pussy's not the place to go for a quick shop, if you know what I mean; and I bet there was a certain special item he didn't spend enough time searching the store for." Rachel blushes and Santana stands. "And on that note, I think I'll head to bed; I've got singing lessons in the morning."

Rachel shakes her head and wonders what she's gotten herself into.

***

Two days after the move-in, both of them realize the other cries at night; Santana can hear Rachel's muffled heaves into her pillow and Rachel can hear Santana's quiet, but distinct sniffles and whimpers.

***

Three weeks later, when Kurt visits, Rachel sobs. "How could he just...just...expect me to go on without him?"

"Haven't you gotten over that wrench yet, Berry? That tool wanted nothing more than to stick his tool in your toolbox." Kurt glares at her and he wraps his arm around Rachel, whispering comforting words in her ear. She wants to believe that Santana means well, but she still cries herself to sleep at night some days, and there are nights when Santana's "helpful" words are like a butter knife slowly sawing off bits of her heart. There's a small bit of her that knows she herself is just bitter over her impending break-up with Brittany, but she can't help but resent the harsh words she attempts to comfort her with.

"He was a lot more than that, Santana," Rachel mutters, wiping away her tears with the crumbled up tissue in her hand.

"He was a lot more than that, sure, if you're putting him on a scale; his boobs were bigger than yours."

"Not helping, Satan," Kurt grumbles.

"You know what, just because you can get over Brittany so quickly doesn't mean that I can do the same with Finn!" Rachel says, squeaking with anger, her eyebrows furrowed. Santana stops in her tracks, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping.

"Excuse me, but last time I checked, I was still in a relationship, unlike you, Marlo Thomas; she didn't dump me at the first chance she could."

"No, she's just getting drunk and making out with football players-cheating-and what? The all-powerful, bitchy queen Santana Lopez-the one who nearly killed Jacob ben Israel with a history textbook when she caught him pleasuring himself in one of the showers in the girls' locker room-is letting her own girlfriend use her, take advantage of her?"

Santana stared at her for seconds, minutes-and Rachel stood there, meeting her gaze, her eyes furious, her head held high.

When Santana walks away, her bare feet stomping hard against the wooden floor, Rachel breaks down and more sobs wreck her body.

Santana does the same thing, alone, in her own room.

They don't speak to each other for six days.

Eventually Santana hands Rachel a package of vegan bean burgers and there's a silent agreement that the argument is forgotten.

***

In October, Santana finally ends it with Brittany. It hurts her more than she can admit, but she knows she has to let her go. That night, Rachel goes out to the convenience store across the street and buys a gallon of low-fat ice cream and a gallon of vegan frozen yogurt.

"We're going to watch 'Love Story' and cry all night, okay?" she says to Santana when she returns. Through tears, she nods. "This will be our way of saying goodbye. Goodbye to Finn and Brittany, goodbye to our lives as happy, innocent high school students, and goodbye to the pain and suffering and just...all the crap we've put ourselves through missing it all. Missing them." She hands Santana one of the spoons in her hand, and through tears, Santana manages to give her a small smile.

"Thanks, Rachel," she says softly. She wipes the tears off her face as she slowly realizes that she and Berry-Rachel-are becoming friends. It's strange, she thinks, because while they both believed they were friends in high school, Santana is sure that in the midst of a break-up, her slightly younger self would never have turned to the girl who now sits beside her. Their friendship, Santana tells herself, is different.

"I got you mint chocolate chip," Rachel says, handing her one of the two gallons in the grocery bag. "I remembered that two years ago, at lunch, when you quit the Cheerios for a while, you bought a mint chocolate chip ice cream bar from the snack stand because you were off of Sue's diet."

"You remember that?" Santana rasps out. "Should I get a restraining order, Berry? That's a little creepy."

"Shush," Rachel says, pulling out her own carton of plain vanilla, "I only remember because you spent the entire period telling everyone you could that you were free from the 'Pharaoh' and her ungodly diet."

"Oh yeah," Santana replies. "I must've blocked out that part." She sniffles.

"I bet Noah would've remembered, too; he told you that he understood your pain, as a member of the Jewish faith."

"Nah," Santana says, "he wouldn't've. He's not the type." She swallows hard and looks up at her. "Thank you," she says seriously.

"Of course," Rachel said, putting her ice cream down and biting her lip. "I'm going to hug you now." Santana chuckles a bit as Rachel wraps her arms around her, smiling and rubbing her back gently. "Brittany just wasn't the one. It's going to be okay," she whispers soothingly. Santana shakes her head and shuts her eyes tightly.

She thought that she and Brittany would be together forever.

For the first time in a long while, Santana breaks down, falling into Rachel's arms, sobbing.

***

The two girls both decide to stay in New York for the winter holidays; Santana really can't afford to fly back to Lima, and more than that, she isn't ready to see Brittany again. Rachel chooses to stay, more for Santana than anyone else. She's not ready to see Finn, either, but she sure isn't ready to leave Santana alone during the Christmas season. They'd become such good friends in such a short period of time that Rachel isn't even sure how it happened. One day, they were sort of friends and the next Rachel was skipping out on seeing her dads in order to stay with Santana over the break.

"Don't be stupid," Santana says, "go see your dads. I'd bet you money that one of them is hanging a noose and the other is sharpening a knife; they'd die before they let a Chistmukkah go by without you."

"They'll be fine," Rachel reassures. "I want to be here. This time of the year...New York is beautiful. We'll have to go skating in Rockefeller Center. Oh, and see a show! A treat for ourselves, you know?"

Santana smiles. "Yeah, I do." She pauses for a moment. "Just nothing lame, Rachel. If you drag me to another stupid musical about nuns..."

"That was only one! And Sister Act was flawless!"

"The revival of The Sound of Music counts, too. And trust me, if you and Kurt sing My Favorite Things again, I'll ban you both from the apartment. You can find another gay to live with."

Santana's not all that big of a fan of holiday decorations, but it's Rachel who goes all out-red and green garland, a miniature fake tree, a menorah-she even wears the childish sweaters with snowmen and gingerbread cookies and dreidels on them. But even though it's not really Santana's thing, even though she would usually scoff at people like Rachel, she smiles brightly when she's handed a mug of hot cocoa. She even helps Rachel light the candles for the menorah every night of Hanukkah.

She forgets about Brittany-even if it's only for a couple of hours at a time.

***

When New Year's Eve hits, both Santana and Rachel decide to stay in. "Real New Yorkers don't go see the ball drop," Santana says, and Rachel agrees. "We can go see balls drop when the homeless guy across the street flashes us for his own exhibitionistic pleasure."

They both get drunk. It isn't pretty. Rachel ends up in tears; Finn's gone and it hits her once more that he's not coming back.

"He-he was the love of my life," she hiccups, her mascara running, and Santana rants in her favor.

"You're hot enough to score another piece of ass with better abs and a lot more personality, Babs," she says as she shoves a tortilla chip into her mouth. She chugs the rest of the blueberry vodka in her hand, and then throws her arms around Rachel. "He doesn't deserve you," she slurs out. "If he were here, he'd just ignoreyou. I wouldn't ignore you."

Rachel giggles through her tears. "You-you have really nice-nice everything," she says, her mind drifting. They're both in their pajamas; Rachel's are pink flannel, Santana's are silky black. "Do you like me more than Finn does?"

"I like you," Santana says. She pulls Rachel closer and hugs her, dropping the empty vodka bottle on the floor and squeezes tight. "You're my best friend. Like, you're the only person I have in New York-and you're the only person I want," she mumbles, her inhibitions lost. Rachel buries her face into her hair, and then laughs.

"You always smell so good," she says loudly, laughing. "How do you do that? How do you always smell like rainbows, 'tana?"

"It's the lesbian in me," Santana jokes, and they both laugh hard, still clutching each other. Santana, the more sober of the two, recognizes that the hug is too long-but she's still too drunk to care.

"Brittany-I couldn't talk to like this," Santana admits, taking a gulp of Rachel's drink-ironically named Berry Blast. "I loved her so much it hurts." Santana starts crying and Rachel pulls her close.

"I know it's not the same because I'm not her," Rachel says, moving closer to her, "but I love you." Santana looks up at her, and even though she looks sober for a second, Santana knows deep down that she's drunker than she'd be willing to admit.

"No, you don't," Santana cries, "you don't, because you can't. Not the way Brittany did." The words flow out of her mouth before she can stop them, and before she knows it, Rachel kisses her.

Both of them have tear-stained faces-Santana's eyes are still wet-but Rachel's impulsive action has stilled the waterworks. Rachel places her hand gently on Santana's face, and Santana never could have imagined this would have happened. She opens her eyes for mere seconds, watching Rachel for a moment, before squeezing them shut again, and kissing her even more passionately. Their tongues begin to battle, and suddenly-Rachel pulls away, clutching her collar with one hand and covering her mouth with the other.

Santana couldn't lie to herself; it's not like she never imagined kissing Rachel. She had thoughts occasionally (and more dirty dreams about her than she'd like to admit), but in reality? Rachel liked boys. Large, extraordinarily white boys that can't dance. Lost in thought, in confusion, Santana barely notices when Rachel flees to her room.

 _What just happened?_ Santana thinks to herself.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss isn't just a kiss; not for Santana.

They don’t talk about the kiss for three days. Santana wants to say something, but Rachel continues about her days as usual--she pretends that nothing happened. It hurts, just a little.

“Rachel...we need to talk,” Santana mumbles. She sits on the couch, her hands fidgeting in her lap. Rachel, who’s only just walked through the door, looks befuddled. She sits down on the couch next to her, her eyes glazed with concern, and she puts her hand on Santana’s shoulder.

“Sure...what about?” Rachel mutters, almost in a whisper. Santana pulls her arm away and turns to look at her, confused, angry.

“What _about_? Berry, we _kissed_. And you ran away from me.” Rachel gives her a look of surprise, but Santana continues. “I know you were drunk, and I know I was semi-drunk, but I _was_ under the impression that that kiss was something that you don’t forget.” Santana swallows hard. “I didn’t forget it anyway. Even if you did.” Rachel bites her lip. 

“I’m sorry, ‘Tana...I...I wish I could remember, but I really don’t,” she whispers. “I...I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t’ve. You’re still hurting over Brittany. And I’m still...well, I’m pretending not to be hurt over Finn, but my heart still aches every night.” Rachel sighs. “If I kissed you, it was a mistake.” 

Santana feels a pang in her heart, and she’s not exactly sure why. It’s not as if she _likes_ Rachel in that way--it’s not as if she’s in _love_. But it hurts. The words still sting. 

“Yeah, okay,” Santana says, looking away. “I mean, it’s not as if I was--I just thought it was strange we weren’t acknowledging it. I didn’t think it was--I was just asking or whatever.” Her voice picks up a slight attitude along the way, a defense mechanism, the only way she can conceal her slight (and if it’s more than slight, she won’t admit it) disappointment. 

Rachel sighs, looking at Santana with heavy eyes. “I do love you--as a friend. You’re my best friend.” The words, which are meant to comfort, seem hollow. It’s almost as if Rachel’s trying to let her down easily. 

“I’m not fragile, Berry,” she spits out. “I didn’t think it meant anything. You’re my best friend, too, but I’ve heard Katy Perry, I know these things happen. So stop trying to console me, okay?” Rachel nods, speechless, shocked at the outburst. “I--I have a gig tonight, so I’m going to--I’ve got to get ready.” 

Rachel can see the kiss meant something to her, but she simply brushes it off as lingering feelings for Brittany, feelings that the kiss brought up.

She wishes desperately she could remember it.

***

Santana fucks some girl the next night. Rachel never sees her face, but she can hear the moans through the wall; she thinks of Daisy, of the reason she moved into this apartment in the first place, and she buries her face into her pillow. She’s not sure why, but there’s a part of her heart that aches when she hears the groans, the whimpers through the wall. 

For a brief moment, she wonders what it would be like to be the one buried between Santana’s legs, and her cheeks flush. She resolves not to think of the image again--she doesn’t like her roommate like that.

And yet, she can’t help but think, again and again, what her lips must’ve felt like against Santana’s on New Year’s Eve. 

***

Santana finds herself thinking more and more about her best friend; it’s what leads her to the daily one-night-stands with less-than-gorgeous girls who are more interested in experimenting than a relationship. And Santana is perfectly fine with being their little experiment--it’s college for them, and it’s a distraction for her. Banging some chick stops her from thinking about Rachel’s voice, her soft skin, the taste of her vanilla lip gloss. 

They’re best friends; they’re never going to be more than that. That’s what Santana tells herself everyday, when she imagines what life _could_ be like if Rachel were hers. 

When she finds herself kissing the thighs of some blonde bimbo, whose name she can’t remember, she pretends it’s Rachel for a just a moment, imagines her thighs instead of this foreign girl’s, and smiles. 

***

Three weeks later, Rachel’s at a bar with her friends. It’s a piano bar, one of the hipper ones nearby NYADA, and she’s with a group of friends from her musical theater class. She drinks a couple of wine coolers her older friends hand her (to them, the stamp on her hand that marks her youth means nothing). She’s a little tipsy, but she’s aware of herself, of her movements and of her body, and she decides, maybe she’ll be like one of those college girls who Santana’s going home with. One of those girls who experiments. She can hear the performer in the background, smoothly belting out the lyrics to a song she can’t pinpoint--and the voice sounds familiar, but her mind is foggy and she can’t--she’s just _tipsy_ she tells herself and one kiss won’t hurt. 

She finds a girl, chats her up, and soon after, they’re making out. Her name’s Rose or Lavender--something flowery, she remembers that--and slowly the girl’s small hand sneaks up and squeezes her breast gently, in the middle of the bar, and Rachel pulls away, wiping at her mouth. Tears slide down her face as she realizes that it’s not kissing a girl that’s upsetting her, it’s that she’s not kissing the right girl. 

She runs through the tables and passes the stage on her way out, on her way to the closest exit, and in the corner of her eye, she sees Santana, the performer whose sultry voice inspired her to test her sexuality. Maybe it was her subconscious, maybe it was her voice that led her to her discovery that gender isn’t so black and white. She thinks that maybe Santana knows that more than anyone. 

For a split second, she and Santana meet eyes. Santana gazes at her as she sings, her lips dark red and sultry, her eyes ablaze with passion. Rachel wipes at her mouth again, her own lipstick smudged, her eyes wet, her mascara running--and she stares and she listens.

_Maybe I’m amazed at the way I really need you._   
_Baby I’m a girl, maybe I’m a lonely girl,_   
_Who’s in the middle of something_   
_That she doesn’t really understand._

Rachel runs. Santana swallows hard and keeps singing, her eyes watering. 

***

Santana and Rachel both lay in their respective beds that night. Both don’t realize that the other is crying because they’re busy with the sound of their own tears.

 _When did we grow apart?_ Santana thinks. The kiss. It all goes back to the kiss, and she knows this, but she refuses to forget it, and she’s resigned herself to the fact that maybe they were never meant to be best friends. Maybe it’s just too complicated. 

When they watch movies, when they spend time together, it’s uncomfortable, it’s awkward, and Santana can’t help but make wise remarks that sting Rachel. And Rachel can’t admit that maybe there’s something more between them. (She justifies it to herself by saying that Santana’s happy with the slutty cheerleaders and blonde babes that she bangs a couple times a week.) 

Eventually it gets too hard. 

“I think,” Rachel says one day, “that I’m going to move in with Kurt. His roommate’s left to go back to Milwaukee--he wasn’t ready for the city--and--and we’ve been--drifiting...” 

Santana wants to fight for her, she does, but she can’t see how Rachel would want anything to do with her. 

“Unless you want me here,” Rachel mumbles. She looks at her straight in the eye, and Santana can feel her throat close up, the tears on the brink of spilling from her sad eyes.

“I want you here,” Santana whispers, her face hanging low. “I do. But--but...” she looks up at her and bites her lip, “...but I like you, Rachel. I love you. I want you to be more than just a friend.” She breathes in deeply. “I know you’re not--you’re not a lesbian--and I’m trying to respect that--but if you don’t--if you don’t feel the same way, then maybe--maybe it’s a good idea if you leave.” Her voice is soft and her words are choppy, heavy with sadness. Rachel gazes at her, a single tear sliding down her own rosy cheeks. 

“I--I don’t know--Santana, I’m just--” her voice cracks. “You sleep with all those girls and now you sit here and tell me you’re in love with me?” She wipes at her face, and then folds her arms across her chest protectively. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to say you love me back,” Santana whispers. She pushes her hair out of her face and takes another deep breath. “But maybe that’s unrealistic,” she mutters. “I only slept with those girls so I wouldn’t think so much about _you_.” Her voice is low, and Rachel moves closer to hear her better.

“I kissed a girl, ‘Tana,” she says. “I kissed a girl to see what it was like, to see if--if the thoughts I was having about you weren’t just...I don’t know what I was thinking. I kissed her at the bar that night and ran out and saw you and--and I was a _wreck_.” She sighs. “I don’t know if I’m a lesbian, or bisexual--I don’t want to put a label on it, but I know that I like you. I love you. But--but you--I mean, what do want us to do from here?”

“I want us to be happy, that’s all,” Santana says, moving closer. She sniffles and takes her hand, interlocking their fingers and Rachel can’t help but smile slightly. 

“Is it that easy, though?” Rachel asks. She furrows her brow, and Santana nods her head. 

“I think...I think it is what it is,” she says. “Nothing’s ever easy, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Rachel admits. Santana moves in closer, pausing an inch before her lips touch Rachel’s, and she looks into her eyes. Rachel can feel her breath on her mouth, and she sighs, her heart pumping faster. 

“Is it okay if I...?” Rachel nods, and Santana pulls her closer, wrapping her arms around her waist, pressing her lips to Rachel’s. Tears fall from Rachel’s eyes, but this time they’re happy tears, and Santana can tell--she can feel Rachel’s smile against her mouth.


End file.
